B    3    33^    flDM 


ECHOES    FROM   THE    FRONTIER 


THE   TOWN    01'   OLD   VALDEZ 


ECHOES  FROM  THE 
FRONTIER 


VERSES  BY 

ADDISON    M.  POWELL 


NEW  YORK 

A.    WESSELS 

1909 


COPYRIGHT,  1909 
BY  A.   WESSELS 

June 


THE   UNIVERSITY  PRESS,  CAMBRIDGE,  U.S.A. 


DEDICATED 

TO 

THOSE  WHO   HARKEN    TO   THE 
"WILD'S  CALLING" 


247107 


>/ 

M 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

AN  ALASKA  RIVER i 

BILL  GELL'NEAU'S  BEAR  STORY 3 

WHEN  MY  MIND  GOES  ROVEST'  BACK     ....  7 

THE  SHEEP  HUNTER 10 

GOOD-NATURED  JOE 12 

THE  WILD'S  CALLING 15 

A  LETTER  TO  MY  PARD 18 

ALASKA'S  MOUNTAINS 21 

THE  MULE  TRAIN  PACKER 23 

THE  TOWN  OF  OLD  VALDEZ 25 

WHEN  ELECTRIC  SPARKS  ARE  IN  THE  AIR      .     .  27 

THE  MUSHER'S  GOODNIGHT 29 

THE  LOST  VALLEY 30 

JIM  BLAIR 32 

THE  ALASKAN  BYDARKA 36 

A  NORTHERN  COLLOQUY 37 

THE  WHITE  SILENCE 39 

THE  LAST  HUNT  OF  THE  OLD  PARTNERS      .     .  41 

THE  DEMAND  OF  THE  NORTHERN  WHITE  LAND  .  46 


viii  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

AN  OLD  PIONEER 48 

To  MY  OLD  TRAIL  HORSE 51 

A  SOFTER  PLACE 54 

THE  CALIFORNIA  HILLS 56 

INCOMPATIBILITY 58 

DOWN  BY  THE  OLD  SPRING 59 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

The  Town  of  Old  Valdez Frontispiece 

TO   FACE   PAGE 

Prospector's  Cabin,  Knight  Island,  Alaska     .     .       8 

The  Alaskan  Bydarka 36 

United  States  Mail  Station 52 


ECHOES   FROM   THE   FRONTIER 


AN  ALASKA  RIVER 

THERE,  where  the  mountain  fangs  snarl  at  the 

blood-red  moon; 
Where   precipice    o'erhangs,   to    echo   floods    of 

June; 

You  roar  and  pour. 
Through  canyons  dark  and  deep  you  plunge  with 

maddened  pranks; 
To  vales  that  rest  asleep,  where  spruce-trees  line 

your  banks; 

You  swirl  and  curl. 
Ringing  there  your  murmur  —  a  chant  to  red 

men's  tread; 
Singing   songs   of    Summer,    to    living,   of    the 

dead; 

You  moan  and  groan. 

Calling,  you  wind  your  ways,  towards  the  North 
ern  sea; 
Falling,  through  Summer  days,  with  laughter  that 

is  free; 

Then  sigh  and  cry. 

i 


2  ECHOES   FROM   THE   FRONTIER 

Weep  —  where  glaciers  grumble,  'neath  sundogs' 

bitter  glare; 

Sweep,  and  madly  tumble,  by  mountains  bleak  and 
bare; 

And  chime  in  rhyme. 
Oh,  leave  the  land  of  gold,  and  seek  the  dark  blue 

sea! 

Go  to  your  home  of  old  —  back  to  eternity  — 
God's  will  fulfill ! 


BILL  GELL'NEAU'S  BEAR   STORY 


BILL   GELL'NEAU'S  BEAR  STORY 

I,  BILL  GELL'NEAU,  think  that  I  saw  the  largest 

bear  beneath  the  sun 
As  did  Joe  Bell ;  but  he  '11  not  tell  how  he  and  I 

made  that  bear  run. 
I  said  to  Bell,  "I  want  to  yell  to  you  to  cock  and 

shoot  your  gun ! 

If  he  's  coming,  I  am  running !"  and  't  was  but 
said  when  all  was  done. 

As  that  bear  fell,  he  let  a  yell,  and  Lord  of 

bears!  how  I  did  scoot! 
How  we  did  run !    Joe  cocked  his  gun,  and  I 

yelled,  "  Joe,  you  'd  better  shoot !" 
Joe  shot  once  more,  it  made  him  roar,  and  then  we 

split  the  wind  in  two, 

A  stream  I  felt  up  to  my  belt,  but  then  I  bravely 
waded  thru. 

Joe  had  a  gun  and  I  had  none,  and  on  the  bear 

came  with  a  rush. 

While  Joe  was  mute,  I  thot  I  'd  root,  as  we  ran 
thru  the  alder  brush; 


4       ECHOES  FROM  THE  FRONTIER 

So  when  Joe  fell,  and  threw  a  shell,  I  yelled  again, 

"For  God's  sake,  shoot!" 
And  shoot  he  did,  and  then  we  slid,  but  bet  your 
life  that  bear  was  'cute. 

We  thot  at  least  we  'd  shake  the  beast  by  dodg 
ing  him,  but  not  a  shake. 
I  do  declare  that  bear  was  there,  at  every  turn 

that  we  would  take. 
We  were  out-timed  when  trees  we  climbed  —  and 

Joe  he  stopped  upon  a  limb ; 
No  limb  had  mine,  but  up  I  'd  climb,  altho 
't  was  smooth  and  slick  and  slim. 

I  'd  climb  and  climb,  then  for  a  time  I  'd  rest  — 

but  then  I  'd  slide  right  down 
Towards  that  bear  I  knew  was  there,  waitin'  for 

me  to  hit  the  ground. 
Then  up  I  'd  go  and  yell  to  Joe,  "You  'fernal  fool, 

why  don't  you  shoot  ?" 

And  he  would  roar,  "You  climb  some  more;  I 
like  to  see  you  climb  and  scoot !" 

Up  in  that  birch,  safe  on  his  perch,  he  laughed  and 

laughed,  and  laughed  some  more, 
While  down  I  slipt,   my  clothes  I  ript,  then 
climbed  and  slipt  and  climbed  and  swore. 


BILL   GELL'NEAU'S   BEAR   STORY  5 

How  I  did  yell  to  old  Joe  Bell  to  shoot  that  bear 

right  in  the  eye ! 

It  was  no  fun;   I  was  near  done  and  felt  most 
sure  that  I  would  die. 

Then  Joe  said,  "  Bill,  I  must  not  kill  more  than  two 

bears  in  one  year's  time  — 
So  reads  the  law,  and,  Bill  GelPneau,  I  am  a 

law-abidin'  kind. 
I  Ve  killed  my  two  —  it 's  up  to  you  to  keep  on 

slidin'  up  and  down, 

For  that  old  bear  that 's  right  down  there,  would 
like  to  meet  you  on  the  ground." 

I  slid  too  far  and  felt  a  jar,  and  knew  that  I  was 

on  the  ground, 
And  looked  behind,  the  bear  to  find,  but  not  a 

bear  was  to  be  found. 
That  old  gray  bear  had  not  been  there,  and  Joe 

just  knew  it  all  the  time; 
He  said  't  was  fun  to  see  me  run,  but  more  to 
see  me  slide  and  climb. 

He  said  he  'd  swear  he  'd  killed  the  bear  at  least  a 

half  a  mile  behind, 

And  if  I  'd  go,  to  me  he  'd  show,  where  it  rolled 
down  a  steep  incline. 


6      ECHOES  FROM  THE  FRONTIER 

Altho  nigh  spent,  with  him  I  went  —  because  that 

joke  began  to  rub. 

There  lay  the  bear !  'Fore  God  I  '11  swear !  And 
it  was  nothin'  but  a  cub ! 


WHEN   MY   MIND  GOES   ROVIN'   BACK 


WHEN  MY  MIND  GOES  ROVIN'  BACK 

ALL  is  seemin'  to  be  dreary,  and  my  appetite  is 

slack, 
For    nothin'    tastes    like    it    should    taste   to 

me; 
And  I  Jm  feelin'  sad  and  weary,  as  my  mind  goes 

rovin'  back 
To  life   far    North,  where   all   we    had    was 

free. 
My  bed  mattress  is  of  feather,  and  I  Ve  everything 

I  need, 

But  now,  I  'm  feelin'  like  the  very  deuce, 
And  I  hanker  for  North  weather,  to  enjoy  a  camp- 
fire  feed, 
And  sleep  again  on  feathers  of  the  spruce. 

I  'm   a-wishin'   to   be   wendin',  to  be  ridin'    all 

alone, 
Where    mallards    fly    above    your    head    and 

quack ; 
Just   a-trailin'   without   endin'   over   hummocks, 

moss  and  stone, 

Where  laughin'  white  birds  call  to  me,  "Come 
back!" 


8      ECHOES  FROM  THE  FRONTIER 

I  'm  heart-achin'  and  repinin',  and  I  would  not 

mind  the  storms, 

When  trailin'  tracks  of  the  great  caribou; 
'Cause   the   sunlight   would   be   shinin'    and    a- 

glistenin'  on  his  horns, 
And  paintin'  them  a  bright  and  golden  hue. 

I  've  been  dreamin',  when  a-sleepin',  of  a  cabin 

midst  the  spruce, 

A  harbor  near  that 's  very  smooth  and  still  — 
JCept  when  salmon  are  a-leapin',  or  the  honkin'  of 

a  goose 

Echoes  across  the  water  to  the  hill. 
I  'm  a-thinkin',  when  I  'm  walkin',  of  that  little 

cabin  shack, 

A-standin'  there  upon  that  distant  shore, 
And  it 's  to  myself  I  'm  talking  when  my  mind 

goes  rovin'  back; 
'Cause  this-here  life  is  nothin'  but  a  bore. 

Roll  my  sleepin'-bag  up  tightly,  put  my  saddles  in 

a  sack, 

Box  up  my  little  camp-fit  good  and  strong ; 
And  be  sure  you  tag  it  rightly,  for  my  mind  is 

rovin'  back 
To  Northland,  where  the  July  days  are  long; 


PROSPECTOR'S  CABIN,  KNIGHT  ISLAND,  ALASKA 


WHEN   MY  MIND   GOES   ROVIN'  BACK         9 

Where  the  clarion  calls  of  Summer,  from  the  water 
falls  of  June, 
Resound  through  forests,  with  their  laughing 

play; 
While  I  listen  to  the  murmur  of  old  Nature's  lurin' 

tune, 
A-singin'  to  me  its  sweet  roundelay. 

With  my  muscles  hard  and  achin'  from  a  lengthy 

mountain  hike, 

And  appetite  that  it  has  brought  about; 
I  '11  be  longin'  for  the  bacon  and  the  beans  we  used 

to  like, 

A  fryin'-pan  of  speckled  mountain  trout. 
When  once  more  I'm  feelin'  lanky,  and  can  drink 

my  coffee  black, 

And  know  that  I  am  hungry,  tired  and  lean  ; 
I  will  then  not  be  so  cranky,  when  my  mind  goes 

rovin'  back, 
'Cause  right  there,  I  '11  be  campin'  on  the  green. 


io  ECHOES   FROM  THE  FRONTIER 


THE  SHEEP  HUNTER 

I  AM  sitting  'midst  the  crags  of  the  mountains' 

highest  steep, 

And  I  hearken  to  a  murmur  far  below; 
While  I  'm  listening  for  the  stags  of  the  Rocky 

Mountain  sheep 
And   the   rattle   of   their   hoof-beats,  as   they 

go- 
The  blood-red  sun  is  sinking  in  a  fringe  of  purple 

lace, 

Just   as    many  times  I  've  seen   it    sink   be 
fore; 
It  starts  my  mind  to  thinking  of  another  time  and 

place, 
And  to  wishing  I  could  live  those  days  once  more. 

Now  the  peeping  bright-eyed  moon,  'cross  the 

eastern  saw-toothed  fangs 
Is  gold-streaking  down  through  deep  and  death 
like  vales; 
I  '11  be  sleeping  very  soon,  where  a  jagged  shelter 

hangs, 

And  be  dreaming  while  the  wolves  howl  out 
their  wails; 


THE   SHEEP   HUNTER  n 

I  '11  be  dreaming  of  a  life  that  from  this  is  far 

away, 

Of  a  living  I  might  follow,  if  I  would ; 
Of  an  office  —  legal  strife  —  mental  friction  every 

day; 
But  next  morning,  I  'd  not  change  it,  if  I  could. 

When  morning  birds  are  singing,  I  '11  be  picking 

out  my  sheep, 
And  I  '11  take  him  down  the  mountains,  miles 

away, 
And  there  he  will  be  swinging,  'neath  the  sturdy 

hemlock's  sweep, 

That  spreads  shadow  on  my  cabin  all  the  day. 
You  may  worry  all  your  while,  you  may  wrestle 

with  finance, 

And  be  slaving  all  a  life  that  is  not  free ; 
You  may  dress  in  faultless  style,  and  attend  the 

social  dance, 
But  my  mountain  life  is  good  enough  for  me. 


12  ECHOES   FROM   THE   FRONTIER 


GOOD-NATURED  JOE 

THAT  he  could  not  say  "no,"  was  the  worst  fault 

of  Joe, 

Therefore  all  —  high  and  low  —  would  impose  on 
him  so, 

It  was  a  shame. 
While  waiting  for  the  car,  that  would  take  us  to 

town, 
Said  his  aunt,  Susan  Barr,  walking  up  with  a  frown, 

Calling  his  name: 
"My  good  Joe,  won't  you  take  this  little  Maltese 

cat 

To  my  friend,  dear  Miss  Lake,  who  now  lives  near 
your  flat 

In  yonder  town?" 
And  Joe  could  not  say  "  Scat !"  —  pull  a  gun  and 

cock  it, 

Till  she  'd  wrapped  the  cat  in  his  coat-tail  pocket, 
And  pushed  it  down. 

Joe  did  not  make  a  fuss;  he  said,  "Good-bye, 

Aunt  Barr!" 

Though  he  wanted  to  cuss,  as  he  entered  the  car, 
But   't  would  not  do. 


GOOD-NATURED   JOE  13 

He  sat  down  on  its  tail,  then  went  up  in  the 

air, 
As  the  cat  let  a  wail,  and  poor  Joe  let  a  swear, 

How  it  did  mew  ! 
When  again  he  sat  down,  his  catship  was  held 

tight, 

Though  Joe  looked  with  a  frown  when  that  thing 
tried  to  fight, 

And  bite  and  turn. 
Some  girls  there  just  giggled,  and  I  thought  Joe 

would  die, 

Each  time  the  cat  wiggled,  the  poor  fellow  would 
sigh, 

His  face  would  burn. 

Joe  was  red  as  a  rose  when  the  cat  'most  got 

loose, 

And  sweat  dripped  from  his  nose  when  he  said, 
"I  'm  a  goose! 

If  I  don't  feel 

Like  going  to  the  front,  and  just  let  it  jump  out, 
And  while  doing  that  stunt,  see  that  it  lights  about 

Under  the  wheel!" 

Like  a  July  rocket,  he  then  dived  for  the  door, 
At  sight  of  his  pocket  we  all  laughed  a  loud  roar  — 

The  thing  was  done ! 


I4  ECHOES   FROM   THE   FRONTIER 

He  had  closed  the  door  tight,  it  had  caught  the 

cat's  tail, 
So  there  was  a  great  fight,  and  't  was  Joe's  turn 

to  wail; 

It  was  no  fun. 

Joe  looked  back  with  a  frown,  wild  eyes  'most 

from  socket, 
He  could  not  turn  around  —  the  cat  had  the  pocket 

Nearest  the  hip. 
The  Maltese  growled  and  clawed,  and  Joe  almost 

went  blind, 

While  it  scratched  and  it  gnawed  at  his  body 
behind, 

And  yawled  and  bit. 

Some  one  opened  the  door  and  the  cat  got  away, 
Just  as  Joe  almost  swore  —  I  think  I  heard  him 
say: 

"God  bless  that  cat!" 

On  poor  Joe  they  impose,  but  he  now  draws  a  line, 
And  when  back  North  he  goes,  he  will  take  no 
feline ; 

He  swears  to  that. 


THE  WILD'S    CALLING  15 


THE  WILD'S   CALLING 

THE  music  of  the  trees,  the  humming  of  the  bees, 

And  rippling  of  the  babbling  brooks, 
Are  singing  all  day  long,  old  Nature's  sweet  love- 
song 

That  makes  me  think  of  shady  nooks. 
When  sleeping  or  awake,  my  heart  feels  that  old 

ache, 

For  forests  where  caribou  calls; 
And  in  my  ear  there  rings,  a  constant  note  that 

sings 
Of  melodies  from  waterfalls. 

One  mother's  son  's  the  same,  as  any  known  to 

fame, 

If  proving  he  's  honest  and  true; 
So  reads  law  of  the  wild,  to  every  frontier  child, 

And  just  wealth  and  station  won't  do. 
For  the  high  mountain's  dome,  the  soaring  eagle's 

home, 

I  '11  pack  up  my  " camp-fit  "  and  go; 
And  from  the  highest  steeps,  where  the  great  big 
horn  leaps, 
I  '11  look  on  the  valleys  below. 


16  ECHOES   FROM   THE   FRONTIER 

I  would  much  rather  hark  to  the  songs  of  the 

dark, 

And  howling  of  wolves  —  far  away  — 
Than  mixing  with  your  shows,  where  everybody 

knows 

That  you  're  false,  when  you  smile  and  say : 
"  I  'm  happy  that  we  meet,  with  pleasure  let  me 

greet  — 

And  I  hope  you  '11  stay  for  a  while !" 
I  will  move  right  along,  before  my  dimes  are  gone, 
And  remember  your  dollar  smile. 

The  robin  with  red  breast  flits  in  and  out  the  nest 

'Cause  he  is  just  ready  to  fly 
To  a  land  that  he  knows  is  made  green  by  the 

snows 

Now  melting  'neath  a  clear  blue  sky. 
The  feeling  is  the  same,  now  stealing  through  my 

frame, 

And  I  know  you  will  think  it  strange, 
When  saying  that  I  long  to  hear  the  night-bird's 

song, 
And  see  the  moon  peep  o'er  the  range. 

I  beg  you  do  not  grieve  'cause  I  intend  to  leave 
To  travel  the  old  trail  alone; 


THE   WILD'S    CALLING  17 

My  heart-strings  urge  along,  my  blood  is  surging 

strong, 

It  must  be  bred  deep  in  the  bone  — 
To  wander  out  my  days  from  civilizing  ways, 

And  go  where  never  man  has  trod; 
Where  only  birds  sing  songs,  and  there  's  no  cruel 

wrongs, 
And  naught  is  to  be  found  but  God ! 


i8  ECHOES  FROM   THE   FRONTIER 


A  LETTER  TO  MY  PARD 

I'M  not  on  the  write,  but,  pard,  as  you  're  white, 

I  pen  a  few  things  that  down  here  are  rife, 
Of  times  that  are  tough  with  me  —  who  is  rough, 

But  tryin'  to  live  a  civilized  life. 
You  can't  understand  this  civilized  land, 

Unless  you  are  here  to  taste  of  the  cake; 
You  've  been  long  away,  but  down  here,  to-day, 

The  strange  sights,  I  'm  sure,  would  keep  you 
awake. 

The  phonograph  —  that  made  'em  all  laugh, 

The  old  organ,  too  —  't  was  never  in  tune  — 
Just  doubled  the  joys  of  the  Yukon  boys, 

When  loungin'  about  in  the  old  saloon ; 
But  here,  that 's  all  passed,  for  times  are  so  fast 

That  mushers  like  us  can  never  keep  up; 
They  go  such  a  pace,  I  'm  late  in  the  race, 

And  follow  behind  like  a  huskie  pup. 

It  just  makes  me  reel  when  one  on  a  wheel 
Goes  by  like  a  shot  sent  out  of  a  gun ; 

Breezin'  a-wheezin',  bumpin'  a-thumpin', 
Such  sprintin'  old  Nick  could  never  out-run. 


A  LETTER  TO   MY   PARD  ig 

I  have  a  feelin',  when  they  're  mobilin' 
In  tootin'  wagons,  not  pulled  by  a  hoss, 

That  they  are  hooch-crazed,  and  their  minds  are 

dazed ; 
That  they  've  no  driver,  and  have  lost  their  boss. 

I  picked  up  a  thing  —  't  was  tied  to  a  string  — 

Through  it  I  talked,  then  —  from  miles  away  — 
A  voice  came  on  wire,  past  the  floods  and  fire, 

And  I  heard  every  word  the  guy  had  to  say. 
An  ee-lectric  car  rolled  by  with  a  jar  — 

And  I  could  not  see  what  made  the  thing  go ; 
Though  I  asked  the  wise,  who  had  brains  and 
eyes, 

But  they  shook  their  heads,  and  they  did  not 
know. 

I  've  seen  words  of  fire  fly  out  from  a  spire, 

In  messages  sent,  and  caught,  leagues  away, 
Across  sea  and  land,  over  desert's  sand  - 

Words  now  are  like  birds,  and  fly  night  and  day. 
And  men  are  the  same  —  they  're  right  in  the 
game  — 

And  they  now  fly  high,  like  birds  on  the  wing. 
It  would  make  you  swear ;  —  and  I  do  declare 

That  I  will  be  back  right  early  next  Spring. 


20  ECHOES   FROM  THE  FRONTIER 

With  'em  I  Ve  battled,  until  I  'm  rattled, 

A-tryin'  to  hold  on  to  my  life-lease  — 
It  keeps  me  jumpin',  dodgin'  from  bumpin' 

Machines  and  the  cars,  that  give  me  no  peace. 
So,  I  'm  comin'  back  to  our  cabin  shack  — 

For  civilized  ways  I  do  not  aspire; 
I  '11  never  feel  right,  'till  sittin'  at  night, 

A-smokin'  my  pipe  —  by  our  chimney  fire. 


ALASKA'S  MOUNTAINS  21 


ALASKA'S  MOUNTAINS 

O,  MOUNTAINS  grand,  of  Northern  land ! 

Imperial,  beauteous,  cold  and  fair  — 
Your  look  sublime  discredits  time, 

Yet  proves  your  age,  with  silvery  hair ! 
'Neath  smiling  stars,  or  angry  Mars, 

You  've  firmly  stood,  while  ages  ran ; 
Dreaming  alone  of  wealth  you  own, 

Those  dearly-bought  rewards  for  man. 

Alaska's  pride,  and  Northland's  bride 

That  wears  Aurora's  veil  of  gauze; 
'Midst  scathing  pyres  of  crater  fires, 

You  stand  to  prove  the  First  Great  Cause. 
Through  mystic  flights  of  Northern  Lights 

You  rear  your  never-changing  crest, 
Defying  law,  inspiring  awe, 

Receiving  homage,  North  and  West. 

Patient  and  wise,  with  weary  eyes, 
You  've  guarded  well,  since  days  of  old, 

Your  jewels  rare,  deep  hidden  there, 
Your  emeralds  and  your  shining  gold. 


22  ECHOES   FROM   THE   FRONTIER 

You  've  waited  long  the  miners'  song, 
From  men  of  might,  who  'd  dare  invade 

Your  hidden  "faults,"  your  treasure  vaults, 
And  wrest  the  prize  with  pick  and  spade. 

The  cloud  you  love  hangs  not  above, 

But  softly  lies  upon  your  breast; 
While  Summer's  scene,  with  wreaths  of  green, 

Enchantingly  your  feet  has  dressed. 
Symbols  and  sign,  by  art  Divine, 

Towering  above  your  green  denies, 
Your  spires  stand,  like  Titans  grand, 

To  guard  through  storms,  or  sunshine's  smiles. 

Perfect  you  rise,  to  mortal  eyes, 

Lifted  by  gods  from  far  below ! 
Mysterious  mounts,  no  history  counts, 

White-capped  with  sheets  of  lasting  snow ! 
Down  through  your  seams  hide  golden  gleams, 

For  men  to  seek  like  abject  slaves; 
Though  near  your  steep  lie  those  who  sleep 

The  sleep  of  death  in  paupers'  graves. 


THE   MULE   TRAIN   PACKER  23 


THE  MULE  TRAIN  PACKER 

THERE  was  a  jolly  packer,  who  always  chewed 

tobacker 

When  singin'  out  his  lonely  wail: 
"I  'd  rather  be  a-prancin',  in  town  where  girls  are 

dancing 

Than  packin'  on  the  Valdez  trail." 
He  took  a  crazy  notion,  and  sailed  upon  the  ocean, 

His  stomach  took  a  sudden  slip; 
And  then  the  jolly  packer  swore  he  would  n't  chew 

tobacker, 
While  ridin'  that  buckin'  old  ship. 

To  ship's  mast  he  was  swingin',  while  swayin'  and 

a-singin' : 

If  they  would  only  let  him  sail, 
He  'd  just  let  her  buck  and  pitch,  till  he  threw  the 

diamond  hitch, 

Then  he  'd  start  for  the  Valdez  trail. 
"  As  sure  as  I  'm  a  Jonah,  my  mental  telephona 

Hears  'em  sayin'  we  '11  now  go  down ! 
That  suits  me,"  said  the  packer,  "and  I'll  give 

my  tobacker, 
If  she  '11  only  lay  still  on  ground." 


24  ECHOES   FROM   THE   FRONTIER 

The  po-lice  of  Seattle  would  never  let  him  prattle 

His  ditty  with  the  lonely  wail; 
He  offered  them  a  dollar,  if  they  'd  just  let  him 
holler 

That  he  'd  packed  on  the  Valdez  trail. 
So  with  another  notion,  he  sailed  back  on  the  ocean, 

To  sing  again  his  lonely  wail : 
That   he 's   a  jolly   packer,   who   always  chews 
tobacker, 

And  he  rides  on  the  Valdez  trail. 

He  says  he  is  a  sticker,  who  always  wears  a  slicker, 

When  rivers  are  flowing  brim  full, 
And  he  doesn't  mind  the  wettin',  since  that  is 

what  he  's  gettin' 
"For  havin'  a  Government  pull." 
He 's  still  the  jolly  packer,  and  always  chews 

tobacker, 

Though  he  comes  out  late  in  the  Fall; 
But  then  he  's  found  a-prancin',  round  where  the 

girls  are  dancin'; 
And  he  's  danced  at  a  Horseshoe  ball. 


THE  TOWN   OF  OLD  VALDEZ  25 


THE  TOWN  OF  OLD  VALDEZ 

THERE  's  a  frontier  town  on  Alaska's  Sound 

Of  the  northern  land-locked  seas; 
Where  the  mountains,  high,  point  towards  the 
sky  — 

Their  shadows  to  Old  Valdez. 
There,  of  Winter  nights,  by  the  bright  firelights, 

While  the  glacier  winds  rolled  by, 
The  boys  told  their  tales  of  the  wonder  trails 

They  had  followed  —  God  knows  why. 

They  told  with  one  breath,  of  life  and  of  death, 

Of  dangers  they  had  defied; 
Of  the  wolf-dog's  wail  heard  beside  the  trail; 

And  of  comrades  who  had  died; 
On  both  Tan-a-na  and  the  Chit-i-na 

And  on  the  old  Bremner's  bank, 
In  the  snowslide's  wake  and  where  glaciers  break 

Were  the  graves  of  those  who  sank. 


Since  the  times  of  old,  both  the  strong  and  bold 
Have  searched  for  the  world's  great  ways; 

That  the  weaker  kind,  who  have  jogged  behind, 
Might  follow  on  other  days. 


26  ECHOES   FROM  THE  FRONTIER 

'T  was  such  men  as  these,  went  from  Old  Valdez 

To  battle  in  Nature's  fights; 
And  from  peak  to  peak  they  have  scaled  to  seek 

Their  ways  by  the  Northern  Lights. 

When  the  sun's  bright  rays,  on  the  Summer  day?, 

Streak  the  lowland's  shady  dells, 
And  the  mountain  streams  add  their  silv'ry  gleams 

And  we  hear  the  pack-train  bells; 
It  is  then  we  dream  of  the  days  we  've  seen, 

Of  men  who  have  lived  and  died, 
And  the  things  they  've  done  in  the  mid-night  sun, 

When  the  boldest  hearts  were  tried. 

Those  peaks  in  the  sky,  where  the  white  birds  fly, 

That  pierce  to  the  realm  of  blue, 
Have  often  looked  down  on  our  Valdez  town, 

And  men  that  were  tried  and  true. 
When  the  time  rolls  round,  it  will  then  be  found 

That  Uncle  Sam  holds  the  keys 
To  his  vaults  inside,  where  the  treasures  hide 

And  the  door  is  Old  Valdez. 


WHEN  ELECTRIC  SPARKS  ARE  IN  THE  AIR     27 


WHEN  ELECTRIC   SPARKS   ARE   IN 
THE   AIR 

GEE  !    How  the  North  wind  sings  to-night ! 

Electric  sparks  are  in  the  air ! 

See  !    How  they  shake  from  Northern  Light 

And  tingle  the  roots  of  your  hair, 

Imparting  life. 

O,  what  a  night  this  night  will  be  — 

The  miners  are  down  from  the  camps, 

Lo  !    'T  is  a  night  of  jubilee 

And  harvest  sure  for  black-leg  scamps 

In  gambling  strife ! 

There  !    Did  you  hear  that  shot  ring  out  ? 

Night's  orgies  now  have  just  begun. 

Flare,  red-lights  —  this  is  your  blow-out ! 

For  fools  imagine  it  is  fun 

To  play  with  death. 

Mark  !     One  is  gay,  another  fights, 

And    some    stroll    down    the    long   "white 

way  " ! 

Hark !    Now  they  dance  at  Kid's  and  White's, 
And  there  they  '11  dance  till  break  of  day 
With  Winter's  breath. 


28  ECHOES  FROM  THE   FRONTIER 

Streak,  you  Northlights,  in  blue  and  gold ! 
Impart  more  zest  to  good  inclined. 
Shriek,  you  Northwinds  with  bitter  cold 
Till  the  huskies  have  howled  and  whined 
In  vale  and  dell ! 

Sigh?    Yes,  you  may  for  those  who  feel 
Respect  for  law  and  all  that 's  right. 
Why  ?    Because  with  their  hands  on  steel 
They  '11  try  for  order  with  their  might 
This  night  of  heU ! 


THE  MUSHER'S   GOOD-NIGHT 


THE  MUSHER'S   GOOD-NIGHT 

IN  my  sleeping-bag  I  lie,  looking  at  the  starry  sky, 
Dreaming  of  the  worlds  that  circle  far  above; 

And  I  also  wonder  why  I  should  roam  until  I  die, 
Far  away  from  all  the  friends  I  dearly  love. 

Through  the  silvery  moonlight,  the  great  mountain- 
peaks  in  white 

Overlook  the  valleys,  keeping  tryst  with  snow ; 
And  here  all  alone  I  roam,  thinking  of  my  friends 

at  home, 

While  the  circling  wolves  howl  out  their  dismal 
woe. 

To  the  great  God  of  the  wild,  of  this  wide  land 

undefiled, 

And  the  God  of  laws  that  govern  worlds  above ; 
Let  me  now   admit   his  might,   to  enscroll  the 

heavens  with  light, 
As  I  thank  him  for  his  gracious  gift  of  love. 


30  ECHOES   FROM   THE  FRONTIER 


THE   LOST  VALLEY 

HUSH  !    We  now  step  where  no  man  ever  trod, 

And  amidst  scenes  free  from  all  human  taint ; 
Break  not  a  twig  —  't  is  the  garden  of  God, 

These  pictures  here  are  of  heaven-tinted  paint. 
This  carpet,  green,  flower-woven  and  soft, 

Those  mountain  walls,  that  are  piercing  the 

cloud, 
Those  spruce-tree  boughs  that  are  waving  aloft, 

All  are  sacred  —  we  should  not  speak  aloud. 

That  picture  there,  hanging  up  on  the  wall, 

Reflects  the  light  with  its  silv'ry  sheen ; 
Laughing  it  moves  —  't  is  a  live  waterfall  — 

Rare  in  its  frame  of  the  tenderest  green. 
This  pretty  vale  —  now  unpeopled,  alone  — 

With  its  bird-life,  the  great  big-horns  and  bear, 
Like  a  lost  gem,  is  to  man  still  unknown; 

Its  river  runs  —  but  God  only  knows  where ! 

Fire  not  a  gun  —  let  us  strike  not  a  tree  — 

But  quietly  leave  this  valley  alone, 
Where  songs  are  sung  by  the  birds  that  are  free ; 

All  are  happy,  amidst  mountains  of  stone. 


THE  LOST  VALLEY  31 

Harm  not  a  thing  in  this  heavenly  spot, 

Pick  no  flowers  from  this  carpet  we  've  crossed ; 

Our   human    hands    here    should    leave   not    a 

blot  — 
This  vale  is  God's  —  and  to  man  has  been  lost ! 


32  ECHOES   FROM   THE  FRONTIER 


JIM   BLAIR 

DID  I  know  Jim  Blair  ?   You  bet  —  and  I  '11  swear 

That  he  was  white,  clean  to  the  bone. 
He  and  I  shared  joys  when  we  both  were  boys, 

But  as  men,  we  have  gone  on  alone. 
A  boy  tryin'  to  swim,  would  have  drowned,  if 
Jim 

Had  not  pulled  him  out,  by  the  hair; 
When  danger  was  'round,  we  most  always  found 

That  our  Jim  was  sure  to  be  there. 

Jim  Blair  was  once  gay; —  he  never  was  gray 

Until  he  had  loved  Susie  True; 
Then  he  was  n't  the  same,  although  he  was  game, 

But  too  poor  to  marry  Miss  Sue; 
And  loving  Miss  True,  he  said  't  would  not  do, 

To  ask  her  to  give  up  her  life, 
Perhaps  live  in  want,  hear  her  family  taunt, 

About  being  a  poor  man's  wife. 

He  started  to  roam  in  search  of  a  home, 
When  a  low  scamp  enticed  his  girl; 

It  was  not  Jim  Blair  who  would  take  her  where 
She  would  live  in  a  sinful  whirl. 


JIM   BLAIR  33 

When  Jim  Blair  came  back,  and  took  Gossip's 
track, 

He  told  that  man  he  'd  staked  his  life, 
And  he  'd  surely  die,  if  he  did  not  try 

To  get  a  home  for  that  girl-wife. 

Then   Jim  was    so   sad  —  he    could    not   seem 
glad  — 

And  somehow,  he  was  not  the  same; 
For  he  never  smiled,  but  left  for  the  wild, 

And  I  think  that  he  changed  his  name. 
'T  was  years  after  this,  a  little  fair  Miss 

Fell  overboard  a  steamer's  deck; 
A  man  jumped  to  save  —  he  breasted  the  wave 

As  he  swam  through  the  foam  and  fleck. 

When  he  'd  saved  that  child,  the  passengers  smiled, 

A  medal  they  promised  to  him; 
I  looked  the  man  o'er  —  I  'd  seen  him  before, 

For  bless  you  —  the  hero  was  Jim  ! 
The   same   old    Jim    Blair,    who    was    standing 

there, 

Bedraggled,  wet,  weary  of  limb; 
But  when   we    struck    shore,   we    saw    him    no 

more, 

He  would  have  no  medals  for  Jim. 
3 


34  ECHOES   FROM  THE   FRONTIER 

In  the  land  of  gold,  and  of  bitter  cold, 

A  miner  once  came  into  town; 
He  surely  was  rough,  but  did  not  look  tough, 

And  his  face  always  wore  a  frown. 
With  a  knowing  wink,  he  refused  a  drink, 

As  he  joined  us  in  our  hotel; 
And  said    he  'd  not    take   a  drink  that   would 
make 

His  sad  life  a  far  greater  hell. 

Then  the  news  came  in,  from  the  ball-room's 
din, 

That  a  "  dance  girl  "  had  been  knocked  down 
By  her  lover  base,  who  'd  brought  her  disgrace  — 

Those  two  had  just  come  to  the  town. 
We  jammed  through  the  crowd,  and  there,  talking 
loud, 

Was  the  one  who  had  done  the  deed, 
His  hand  on  his  gun,  he  dared  any  one 

To  interfere  —  race,  tribe  or  creed. 

He  then  stopped  to  glare,  through  the  lamp-light's 
flare, 

At  one  who  gazed  death-like  as  steel; 
No  word  did  they  say,  but  the  crowd  gave  'way, 

For  those  were  looks  that  you  could  feel : 


JIM   BLAIR  35 

One  man  from  the  mine  —  who  would  not  touch 
wine  — 

To  make  his  life  a  greater  hell; 
The  other  half -dazed,  and  nearly  hooch-crazed; 

The  girl  lay  near  —  right  where  she  fell. 

Two  shots  then  rang  out,  one  man  turned  about, 

With  a  bullet  hole  near  his  heart ; 
The  other  fell  dead,  with  one  through  his  head ; 

Then  the  girl's  eyelids  drew  apart 
And  with  her  death-stare,  Sue  saw  poor  Jim  Blair. 

As  he  bent  near,  she  called  his  name; 
They  gave  their  last  breath  for  one  kiss  in  death, 

And  we  marked  their  two  graves  the  same. 


36  ECHOES   FROM    THE  FRONTIER 


THE  ALASKAN  BYDARKA 

THE  most  wonderful  boat,  on  the  water  afloat, 

Is  not  of  the  dreadnought  type; 
But  is  made  with  raw  skin,  and  is  airtight  within  — 

It  is  a  peculiar  sight. 
With  a  sharp  double  nose,  the  queer  bydarka  goes, 

And  sure,  it  beats  all  for  looks, 
As  it  darts  in  and  out,  gliding  smoothly  about, 

Round  capes,  and  into  the  nooks ! 

Dressed  in  their  gut  parkas,  fast  in  their  bydarkas, 

North  natives,  with  skins  of  brown, 
Will  face  the  storms'  madness,  with  feelings  of 

gladness,   ' 

And  laugh  when  steamers  go  down. 
'T  is  the  nymph  of  the  blue,  but  't  was  not  made 

for  you, 

And  if  it  you  try  to  ride, 
You  will  certainly  drown,  with  your  head  hanging 

down, 
While  your  feet  are  dry  inside. 


THE    ALASKAN    BYDARKA 


A  NORTHERN  COLLOQUY  37 


A  NORTHERN  COLLOQUY 

How  are  the  boys  up  at  the  mines,  Ben? 

Workin'    and    eatin',    drawin'    their   pay    and 
bummin'. 

How  is  "Flap-jack  Thompson"? 
He  went  down  hooch  canyon. 

What  —  gone  to  drinking  hooch  ? 

Yep,  but  he  's  quit.    He  don't  drink  any  more. 
Good  for  him. 

I  don't  know.     You  see,  he  never  quit  till  it 
killed  him. 

Is  he  dead  ? 

More  than  that.     He  's  buried. 

How  is  " Wolf-hound  Joe"? 
He  's  gone,  too. 

What !     Is  he  dead  ? 
Well,  he  's  married. 

Who  did  he  marry? 

You  know  the  Strelna  Indian  girl,  that  used  to 
come  around? 

Yes. 

Well,  he  did  n't  marry  her. 


38  ECHOES   FROM   THE   FRONTIER 

Then,  who  did  he  marry? 
Her  mother. 

Ha,  ha,  ha! 
Yep ;  Minnie  ha,  ha,  ha !     (Without  smiling.) 


THE  WHITE  SILENCE  39 


THE  WHITE  SILENCE 

WHEN  the  winds  cease  blowing,  and  the  wolves  do 

not  bark 

And  the  whole  North-wild  quits  its  serenade ; 
When  large  flakes  stop  sowing  their  white  streaks 

through  the  dark, 
And  the  bright  moonlight  shines  down  in  the 

glade; 
The  North  then  is  sleeping,  'neath  its  cover  of  white, 

With  e'en  not  a  sigh,  or  a  floating  breath, 
To  follow  from  weeping  for  the  dead  of  the  night, 
To  the  white  silence  —  that  is  still  as  death. 

The  great  North-light  brightens  the  white  world 

with  its  flash 

Of  moving  stillness  —  that 's  so  weird  and  vast 
That  it  almost  frightens,  with  a  great  noiseless 

crash, 

And  you  feel  relieved  when  that  light  has  passed. 

The  moon  is  gold-streaking  among  the  high  places, 

And  down  through  valleys  that  are  deep  and  still ; 

No  voice  you  hear  speaking,  yet  strange-looking 

faces 
Seem  to  go  floating  from  the  vale  to  hill. 


40  ECHOES   FROM  THE  FRONTIER 

You  cannot  hear  breathing  from  any  living  things, 

Or  a  puff  of  wind,  the  falling  of  snow, 
And  you  feel  like  leaving  —  if  you  could  fly  with 
wings, 

And  make  not  a  sound  —  a  fairy  you  'd  go ; 
There  's  silent  history,  where  the  spruce  shadows 
meet, 

And  it  truly  is  a  great  wonder-book, 
Of  scenes  and  mystery,  on  Nature's  canvas-sheet ; 

And  you  cannot  leave,  but  linger  and  look. 

You    know    't  is    alluring  —  the    spell    will    not 

depart  — 

You  stand  there  gazing  on  that  silent  scene ; 
You  feel  that  't  is  curing  your  narrow  shrivelled 

heart 

Of  all  the  small  things  that  are  low  and  mean. 
With  not  a  twig  turning,  all  as  quietly  as  doom, 

And  the  White  Silence  angel  of  the  night, 
From  her  you  are  learning  —  though  't  is  still  as 

a  tomb  — 
That  God  is  present,  ruling  with  his  might. 


THE  LAST  HUNT  OF  THE  OLD  PARTNERS  41 


THE  LAST  HUNT  OF  THE  OLD 
PARTNERS 

You  'VE  waked  me  from  my  nappin',  with  your 

knockin'  and  your  rappin', 
Your  constant  rap-tap-tappin'  at  my  door; 
I  '11  bet  it 's  not  a  raven  who  'd  enter  to  my  haven, 

But  beggars  seeking  alms,  or  peddler  bore. 
If  you  can't  talk  my  lingo  —  I  '11  kick  you  out,  by 

Jingo ! 
You  '11  think   it 's  college  yells,   or  base-ball 

hoots ; 
It's   you   that   I'll   dismember  —  I  '11   bet   that 

you  '11  remember 
The  hard  unyielding  force  that 's  in  my  boots. 

Come,  with  your  din  and  rattle,  we  '11  have  a  high 

old  battle; 

Well,  I  declare,  you  look  —  just  like  Bill  Jones ! 
Are  my  old  eyes  deceivin'  me  into  disbelievin'  ? 
The  same  old  Grizzly  Bill?     God  bless  your 

bones ! 
My  mind  has  been  a-pond'rin',  a-thinkin',  and 

a-wond'rin' 
If  once  again  I  'd  see  your  portly  frame. 


42  ECHOES   FROM   THE   FRONTIER 

I  hope  that  you  are  wealthy  —  what 's  more,  that 

you  are  healthy? 
Yes;  I  am  gray,  and  walk  a  little  lame. 

It  seems  to  me  but  yesterday,  when  you,  I  and 

Esterley 

Hunted  that  Summer  where  't  was  then    un 
known  ; 
That  was  a  trip  of  pleasure,  we  lazed  in  camp  at 

leisure, 

With  all  the  mountain  sceneries  our  own. 
While  washin'  a  sheep  liver,  you,  Bill,  fell  into 

the  river, 
Then    swore    to   us    that   you    had    swum   a 

mile; 
And  I  never  shall  forget,  how  't  was  Esterley  said, 

"You  bet 

'Twas   worth   that   meat,   for   you   to   bathe 
awhile!" 

There  's  another  time  we  know,  when  we  fought 

death  in  the  snow, 

And  all  the  land  was  wrapt  in  Winter's  shroud ; 
The  great  woollies  then  flew  by,  with  a  moan  —  a 

scream  and  cry  — 
Of  bitter  cold  from  fastly  flyin'  cloud. 


THE  LAST  HUNT  OF  THE  OLD  PARTNERS  43 

My  feet  draggin',  most  like  lead,  then  I  paused,  as 

one  half -dead, 

And  crawled  into  my  sleepin'  bag  to  die ; 
But  you,  Bill,  just  mushed  away,  until  the  breakin' 

of  the  day, 

To  where  you  found  some  wood  had  drifted 
high. 

Although  that  storm  was  blindin',  you  built  a  fire 

worth  findin' 

And  stood  right  there  until  you  felt  all  warm ; 
You  then  began  unpackin'  and  came  to  me  back- 

trackin' 

With  heavy  sleigh  against  the  bitter  storm. 
I  was  speechless  as  I  lay,  when  you  'd  placed  me 

on  that  sleigh, 

Between  us  not  a  single  word  was  said; 
It  was  Duty's  voice  a-callin',  my  bones  that  you 

were  haulin'  — 

Until   you    had    me   warm,   you    thought    me 
dead. 

That  sled  you  kept  a-luggin',  and  you  fell  oft- 
times,  a-tuggin'  — 

You   must   have  been   chilled   clear  into   the 
bone; 


44  ECHOES   FROM  THE   FRONTIER 

You  now  speak  of  it  lightly,  and  pass  it  by  as 

slightly, 

With  —  you  had  paid  me  back  a  long-time  loan. 
Oh,  yes,  I  do  remember,  the  day  of  that  Sep 
tember, 

When  I  saved  you  from  that  bear  on  the  hill ; 
And  t'  other  time  from  tumblin',  where  glacier  ice 

was  grumblin' ; 
But  none  have  stood  by  me  like  dear  old  Bill. 

Oh,  the  days  that  we  have  numbered,  and  nights 

that  we  have  slumbered, 
In  lonesome  vales,  or  forest-depth  that  thrills; 
Where  the  water  was  a-splashin'  with  silver  sal 
mons'  lashin', 
And  great  bighorns  looked  startled  from  the 

hills. 
The  mockin'-birds'  sweet  singin',  the  blue  grouse 

a-whirr-wingin', 

The  antelope,  the  deer,  the  old  elk's  bawl, 
The  cataracts  down-fallin',  gave  music  to  wild's 

callin' 
To  us,  dear  Bill;    and  we  replied  to  all. 

What  is  that  I  hear  you  sayin'  —  some  news  that 

you  're  conveyin'  — 
'T  is  of  a  hidden  vale  none  knows  about  ? 


THE  LAST  HUNT  OF  THE  OLD  PARTNERS     45 

Where   bird-life   is   a-larkin'    and   squirrels   are 

a-barkin' 

And  brooklets  are  alive  with  mountain  trout? 
I  '11  just  take  down  my  saddle,  for  it 's  my  old 

horse  I  '11  straddle, 
We  '11  go,  once  more  —  although  it  breaks  my 

bones ! 
I  '11  follow  where  you  're  leadin',  for  I  know  what 

I  'm  a-needin'. 

Thank  God,  for  one  more  hunt  with  old  Bill 
Jones ! 


46  ECHOES   FROM   THE   FRONTIER 


THE   DEMAND  OF  THE  NORTHERN 
WHITE  LAND 

HAVE  you  the  blood  that 's  red  to  fight  by  North 
ern  Light? 

Dare  you  that  blood  to  shed?  Have  you  the  will 
and  might? 

Have  you  the  panther's  tread  to  walk  'midst  sleep 
ing  dead  ? 

A  heart  that  will  not  tire  when  fighting  fierce 
desire  ? 

Then  go  with  the  wizard  to  the  land  of  blizzard. 

Have  you  the  love  to  feel  a  thrill  to  do  and 
dare  — 

With  nerve  that 's  forged  with  steel  for  North 
land's  upper  air? 

Would  you  brave  Winter's  knife  to  save  a  com 
rade's  life, 

Do  for  one  in  the  cold  what  you  'd  not  do  for  gold  ? 

Then  go  face  the  bitter  for  jewels  and  glitter. 

And  have  you  ever  felt  a  falt'ring  of  your  feet, 
A  hollow  'neath  your  belt  when  there  was  naught 
to  eat? 


DEMAND  OF  THE  NORTHERN  WHITE  LAND      47 

Do  you  think  you  could  fast  a  whole  week  out, 

and  last, 

And  give  your  only  crumb  to  a  sick,  dying  chum  ? 
Then  heed  the  North's  needing;    for  you  it  is 

pleading. 

From  morning's  early  dawn  to  closing  of  the  day 
It  pleads  not  for  your  spawn,  but  to  men  it  will  pay 
From  deep  vaults  of  treasure  its  gold  without 

measure ; 

But  keep  back  your  rotten,  blood-poison  begotten; 
With  a  hand  most  ruthless  it  wipes  out  the  useless. 

Send  not  the  pale  of  face,  the  nervous,  worthless 

son  — 
Leave  him  to  seek  a  place,  where  there  's  no  risk 

to  run. 
Keep    your    weak    driv'ling    slime    off    Alaska's 

dead-line, 

Or  its  last  dying  wail  will  be  heard  on  the  trail. 
This  law  is  the  demand  of  that  Northern  white 

land. 


48  ECHOES  FROM  THE  FRONTIER 


AN  OLD  PIONEER 

FAR  away  amidst  the  mountains 

Was  a  lonely  ranch  —  a  western  home ; 
Brooklets  fell  like  snowy  fountains, 

And  the  ranch-man  said,  "Love  made  me  roam. 
How  sweet  to  live  where  winds  make  moan 

And  sing  with  sighing,  through  fir  and  pine, 
They  seem  to  say :  '  You  're  not  alone, 

We  've  drunk  together,  of  Nature's  wine !"! 

His  Colt  Frontier  —  shell  forty-four  — 

Hung  there  on  the  wall,  above  his  head-, 
To  greet  wild  beasts,  if  nothing  more, 

By  Nature's  lover,  who  knew  no  dread. 
He  thought  and  said:  "I  '11  shoot  fat  deer, 

Though  June  be  with  us,  and  warm  to  chase; 
'T  is  thirty  years  since  I  settled  here!" 

Then  sunlight  shone  on  his  thoughtful  face. 

"Time  and  gray  hairs  say  I  grow  old  !" 
'Neath  those  shaggy  brows,  there  dropped  a 
tear; 

He  thought  of  friends  he  'd  left  for  gold, 
When  he  bade  farewell,  to  come  out  here. 


AN  OLD   PIONEER  49 

Through  tall  pine  trees,  the  winds  made  moan  — 
Their  first  sad  tune  —  to  the  mountaineer ; 

They  seemed  to  say,  "  You  're  not  alone, 
We  '11  sigh  and  sing  for  the  pioneer !" 

Who  knew  his  thoughts?    Perhaps  of  love 

Or  of  vows  broken  —  when  young  and  gay ; 
'T  is  said  that  death  saddens  a  dove ; 

One's  future  's  shaped  by  a  single  day. 
While  the  wind  blew  from  ocean's  foam, 

And  the  dogs  noticed  the  change  severe; 
Pines  repeated  sad  news  from  home  — 

A  mournful  wail  to  the  mountaineer. 

Pleasures  soon  may  lead  to  sorrow, 

And  days  of  youth  we  may  oft  regret; 
Glad  to-day,  but  sad  to-morrow, 

'T  would  be  better  if  we  could  forget. 
"To  be  or  not  be!"  Hamlet  said, 

Keeps  from  "shuffling  off  this  mortal  coil." 
Those  thoughts  chased  through  the  hunter's  head ; 

"I  '11  take  my  last  sleep  'neath  mountain  soil." 

The  sun  shone  out  the  next  morn  clear, 

The  grouse  sent  forth  his  deep  sounding  drum ; 

Squirrels  chirped,  said  the  quail,  "I  'm  here !" 
And  the  sad  winds  moaned,  "'T  is  done !  'T  is 
done!" 

4 


50  ECHOES   FROM  THE  FRONTIER 

A  startled  fawn,  a  distant  shot  — 
A  lone  fox  barked  sharp,  with  none  to  hear, 

For  he  was  dead,  and  heard  them  not  — 
Dead  —  the  pioneer  and  mountaineer ! 

Others'  live-stock  now  graze  those  hills, 

The  deer  fear  not  the  absentee; 
Little  he  cares  for  debts  and  bills, 

Bruin  sniffs  not  for  his  enemy. 
Through  soft  pine  boughs  the  sad  winds  sigh 

That  no  friend  was  there  to  shed  a  tear; 
But  Nature  says  to  the  passersby, 

"'T  was  home  for  a  good  old  mountaineer !" 


TO   MY   OLD   TRAIL  HORSE  51 


TO  MY  OLD  TRAIL  HORSE 

MY  good  Black  Diamond  steed,  of  Oregon's  old 

stock, 

With  look  of  "  Printer  "  in  your  noble  eye ; 
You  have  the  greyhound's  speed,  and  from  your 

neck  to  hock 
You  show  the  sprinter  that  can  nearly  fly. 

You  have  been  swimming  long  in  glacier  water's 

cold, 
And    well    have    followed     the    dim    valley 

trails ; 
And  you  have  struggled  strong,  where  the  white 

woollies  rolled, 
That  we  might  descend  to  the  warmer  vales. 

By  my  camp's  lonely  light,  you  have  been  grazing 

near, 
And     you     have    galloped     by    the    foothill 

ways; 
You  've  climbed  the  mountain  height,  and  never 

showing  fear, 

Have  trailed  its  summit  through  long  Summer 
days. 


52  ECHOES   FROM  THE  FRONTIER 

You  bear  a  wounded  brand,  and  it  has  sunken 

deep  — 

A  scar  of  struggle  on  your  silken  breast 
From  this  wild  cruel  land,  where  Northern  lan 
terns  leap; 
But  you  are  worthy  of  the  market's  best. 

I  've  seen  a  wonder  place,  that  is  not  given  chart, 
And  crossed  the  tundras  to  the  tranquil  snow ; 

I  Ve  seen  a  mongrel  face  express  a  sudden  start 
As  you  went  swimming  where  the  rapids  flow. 

We  now  are  trailing  back,  in  front  of  Winter's 
mood, 

Past  that  cache  cabin  with  the  U.  S.  stamp ; 
In  this  crude  stilted  shack  is  stored  our  only  food ; 

And  here,  till  morning,  is  our  U.  S.  camp. 

There  —  a  wild  wolf-dog  wailed !    But  he  '11  not 

worry  you, 
Though  he  comes  rushing  'gainst  the  stormy 

blow; 
You  have  so  truly  trailed,  that  we  're  a  friendly 

two, 

When  wolves  go  mushing  with  their  howling 
woe. 


UNITED    STATES    MAIL   STATION 


TO   MY   OLD   TRAIL   HORSE  53 

By  early  morning's  ray,  we  '11  run  for  foggy  coast 
To  end  our  trailing ;  and  there  —  feeling  warm, 

You  will  be  eating  hay,  while  I  shall  order  toast, 
And  know  you  're  sheltered  from  cold,  beating 
storm. 


54  ECHOES   FROM  THE   FRONTIER 


A  SOFTER  PLACE 

ENOUGH  to  know  his  name  was  Payne, 
And  once  he  lived  'way  down  in  Maine; 
He  always  stayed  close  to  his  home, 
And  never  was  allowed  to  roam, 
Until  the  day  he  said,  out  bold: 
"I  'm  goin'  north  for  shinin'  gold !" 

He  thought  before  he  'd  start  out  west, 
He  'd  see  the  girl  he  loved  the  best ; 
So  he  dressed  up,  from  head  to  toe  — 
Just  like  a  dudish,  fashion  beau  — 
And  called  upon  his  one  sweetheart 
To  say  farewell  before  they  'd  part. 

They  sat  beside  the  old  fire-place 
On  left  and  right,  and  face  to  face; 
And  there  they  sat  —  he  heaved  a  sigh 
And  scratched  his  head,  and  wondered  why 
He  'd  come,  that  sunny  day  of  May, 
To  see  a  girl  —  and  naught  to  say. 

At  last  he  said :  "  I  came  to  say 
Good-bye,  before  I  went  away; 


A   SOFTER   PLACE  55 

And  also  shake  your  little  hand 
Before  I  left  for  northern  land  1" 
She  answered  —  as  it  was  not  late 
She  'd  go  with  him  down  to  the  gate. 

While  there,  he  touched  her  bare  white  arm, 
Then  flinched  as  though  he  'd  done  great  harm ; 
But  that  sweet  girl  just  laughed  out-right, 
And  asked  what  made  him  look  so  white? 
"Oh,"  stammered  he,  with  eyes  aloft, 
"Your  pretty  arm  is  very  soft!" 

Said  she :  "  Young  man,  give  me  your  hand, 
You  're  going  to  Alaska  land  — 
Give  me  your  hand,  and  to  your  face 
I  '11  prove  to  you  a  softer  place !" 
She  took  his  hand,  just  as  she  said, 
And  gently  laid  it  on  his  head. 


ECHOES  FROM  THE  FRONTIER 


THE  CALIFORNIA  HILLS 

WHEN  I  roam  in  foreign  lands,  I  recall  the  beach 

and  sands, 

And  the  California  hills,  so  far  away; 
Where  beneath  the  trees  I  'd  rest,  while  the  sun  set 

in  the  west 
And   the   little   birds    sang   out   the   close   of 

day. 
How  my  heart  longs  for  the  West,  where  the  girl 

I  loved  the  best 

Was  as  true  as  the  clear  azure  sky  above. 
When  I  'm  sad,  how  I  repine  for  those  distant  hills 

of  mine, 
And  the  many  scenes  among  them  that  I  love. 

There  the  Mission  bells  ring  chime,  and  all  Nature 

sings  to  rhyme, 

On  those  poppy-covered  hillsides  of  the  West ; 
There  the  sunshine  and  the  wine,  in  the  good  old 

Summer-time, 

Mark  the  hills  of  California  as  the  best. 
When  my  race  is  almost  run,  at  the  setting  of  life's 

sun, 
Take  me  back  to  rest  in  those  dear  hills  of  mine ; 


THE  CALIFORNIA  HILLS  57 

Where  I  '11  listen  to  the  breeze,  as  it  sings  amongst 

the  trees, 

Through  the  branches  of  the  redwood  and  the 
pine. 

Those  brown  California  hills,  with  their  brooks 

and  shady  rills, 

They  are  pleading  as  of  old  their  call  to  me, 
For  their  love-song  always  thrills,  when  it  warbles 

through  those  hills, 

Like  an  echo  wafting  from  the  sunset  sea. 
Those  hills  by  the  sea  of  blue,  tell  of  life  that 's 

free  and  true, 

In  the  spirit  of  the  wide  and  golden  West; 
And  where  only  birds  and  bees  sing  above  me  in 

the  trees, 
It  is  there  I  hope  to  take  my  final  rest. 


58  ECHOES  FROM  THE  FRONTIER 


INCOMPATIBILITY 

OUR  love  was  deep  and  lasted  long  — 
To  laugh  or  weep  —  't  was  ever  strong 
Because  't  was  pure,  to  last  through  life, 
And  to  endure,  for  man  and  wife. 
I  loved  you  then,  and  love  you  yet, 
Though  one  sad  thought  we  '11  not  forget, 
Our  saddest  words  of  tongue  or  hand 
Are  these:  We  could  not  understand. 


DOWN   BY  THE  OLD   SPRING  59 


DOWN  BY  THE   OLD  SPRING 

THERE  was  a  maiden  fair,   with  waving  sun- 
browned  hair, 

And  I  met  her  all  alone,  by  the  spring; 
'T  was  there  I  broke  a  rule,  our  teacher  had  in 

school, 

I  kissed  her,  and  she  said:  "You  horrid  thing ! 
I  '11  tell  my  parents  both,   and  listen  —  on  my 

oath  — 

I  '11  tell  the  teacher,  too,  what  you  have  done, 
That  you  did  break  a  rule  —  they  '11  turn  you  out 

of  school!" 
But  it  was  worth  it  all,  to  get  that  one. 

The  days  and  weeks  passed  by,  and  no  one  ques 
tioned  why 

I  'd  been  so  "horrid"  and  so  very  rude 
About  that  broken  rule,  and  I  still  went  to  school ; 

Though  never  to  it  once  did  I  allude  — 
Until  the  school  was  out,  and  rules  were  not  about ; 

I  led  her,  by  the  hand,  towards  the  spring, 
She  turned  then,  right  about,  and  told  me  with  a 
pout: 

"  I  '11  not  go  near  that  spring,  you  horrid  thing !" 


60  ECHOES  FROM  THE  FRONTIER 

Now  years  have  passed  since  then,  and  I  've  come 

back  again, 

Once  more  I  'm  sitting  by  that  same  old  spring ; 
And  wond'ring  what  became  of  that  fair  little 

dame  — 

What  Father  Time  has  brought  her  on  his  wing  ? 
If  now  we  could  turn  back  old  Time  upon  his  track 

And  linger  once  again  by  this  old  spring, 
That  same  old  rule  I  'd  break,  another  kiss  I  'd 

take, 

To  hear  her  sweet  voice  say:    "You  horrid 
thing!" 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 
BERKELEY 

THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 

Books  not  returned  on  time  are  subject  to  a  fine  of 
50c  per  volume  after  the  third  day  overdue,  increasing 
to  $100  per  volume  after  the  sixth  day.  Books  not  in 
demand  may  be  renewed  if  application  is  made  before 
expiration  of  loan  period. =— —-—======= 


" 


50m-7,'16 


Powell 
Bo  ho  a  i 


i3  SO  1923 


from  the 


UNIVF 


/  i 


P882 


--- 


247107 


<ARY 


